GOLD DUST DAYS
I've polished my boots
but the dust has ground them brown
so I take a soft horsehair brush
shine them so hard
when the sun hits them, black gleams like white.
Turn the water on for the hogs
coarse dry hair and eyes shaded by rich lashes
they drink, knee-deep in muddy water
like they've just walked in off the range
like they've never cursed the rain.
In the barn, sows waiting to farrow
long patient faces in the narrow crates
gently banging on their feeders.
So many flies it sounds like a bee swarm
the electric hum could be anything
as I plug in the lights, spark and flinch.
Isabelle talks about her brothers,
sometimes reads the magazine articles aloud.
She can't hear me when I ask a question
so we play the game of charades,
pantomiming the words.
"Do you want some yoghurt?"
"Cookies?"
"Yoghurt."
"Chocolate?"
"Yoghurt."
"Oh-yoghurt. No, thank you."
This life is short
like a fish jumping for the fly
there and gone before you see it
just a glimpse, we watch the ripples spread.
She's talking to me as I write,
absently, about my unmatched socks
and their complimenting colors.
Their dog sheds more hair than I've ever seen
hair in our clothes
hair in our food
electrical gadgets clogged, fans jammed
before I sit, I peel the dog towel back
as if it would save me from the rest.
The house grows so quiet between the barking outside,
I'm startled by the lazy hum of a bottlefly.
Ivy crowds the hot tub,
overtaking a stray shoe and a broom handle.
The lilacs all gone to seed.
I sit with an old black cat as the sun shines low
bleeding through the maple trees.
Deals the land a Midas blow.
We leave the pen and paper to seek its touch
to be still
to learn the alchemy of light.
© Darcy Stumbaugh, July 16, 2000
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